


Unpacking

by nonelvis



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sooner or later, you have to close every box you've opened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpacking

**Author's Note:**

> Never enough post-"Doomsday" reunion fic, right? Definitely not fluffy, though. (Also, rated Adult not because there's lots of smut -- sorry, there isn't -- but rather because what's there is explicit.) Special thanks to platypus for putting up with my whining about whether this was any good, as well as to both her and iko for helping me think through a minor bit of canon almost completely unimportant to the story, but which was nevertheless bugging the hell out of me.

The TARDIS is shaking and shuddering, knocking him about the console room so violently that even after grabbing hold of the captain's chair, he finds himself halfway on the floor by the time the ship finally touches down. To his surprise, she's come to a screeching halt on her own authority instead of his; wisps of smoke emerge from the console, and the turquoise light of the time rotor flickers once, twice, then steadies. He's certainly used to rough landings – more than nine hundred years piloting the old girl, and she still only behaves for him when it pleases her – but there's something familiar about this one, something vague and unsettling teasing at his memory.

He picks himself up off the floor, straightens the brown suit jacket, and steps towards the door, getting halfway to the exit before he remembers to check for a breathable atmosphere. And after reading the interlocking arcs and circles on the monitor at least three times, he starts running, almost falling over himself to get outside and confirm that his beautiful, beautiful ship has done what no ship anywhere should be able to do.

In the park where they've landed, the zeppelins loom high overhead, engines thrumming a low bass note he feels more than hears. He stands in the criss-crossing oval shadows, turns his face to the sky, and grins so widely he expects the toffs up above must be grateful they're so far away from an obvious lunatic. Especially after he turns to plant a sloppy kiss of gratitude on the door of a battered, wooden police box.

* * *

Tracking down Rose is easier than expected. This universe's version of Torchwood is either less secretive or even more incompetent than the one he's familiar with, because he has no difficulty sonicking Rose's mobile number and billing address from a public network terminal.

He finds her flat nearby, on the twenty-sixth floor of a high-rise overlooking the park. The TARDIS always was clever, dropping him wherever she thought he might be useful as saviour, troublemaker, or more frequently, both. He's not sure which of those he'll be this time.

He spends half an hour pacing outside the building before he's calmed down enough to enter, and even then the psychic paper he shows to the security guards reads "King of Belgium" again. Clearly the guards must be used to Rose receiving unusual guests, because they call the lift for him without question.

Naturally, there's another half-hour's pacing outside her door while he mutters quietly to himself. One of Rose's neighbours emerges, dressed for a jog, and stares at him as he stalks back and forth with his shoulders tensed forward and hands thrust in his pockets.

"Um," he says, when he notices the neighbour and her suspicious gaze. She stands her ground, her arms folded in front of her, waiting for an explanation.

Fortunately, he's very good at explanations.

"Carpet inspector," he says. "Yes, that's it, inspecting the carpet to make sure it isn't wearing thin too quickly. You know, in these high-traffic areas you simply can't be too careful, one worn spot in the corridor and whoosh! Down you go, groceries flying everywhere, that special raspberry cream tart you bought all over your new dress and the next thing you know you're ringing your solicitor about a nice, fat lawsuit against the building managers and all because no one thought to check the quality of the carpet. Which is holding up quite nicely, I must say."

The woman continues staring at him, so he continues rattling on.

"Carpet. Not worn out quite yet, I don't think. Must keep moving to triple-check the fibre resilience, though ... ." He's racking his brain for more carpet-related trivia when thankfully, the woman loses patience with his patter and heads off to the lift.

Which is when Rose opens the door.

She must have heard him acting the nutter as usual, and it's too soon to see her; he hasn't even decided how to greet her yet. Weak as it is, "Fancy meeting you here" was beating out "I was taking the ship for a quick spin 'round the Crab Nebula and thought I might drop by for a cuppa," and both were still better than the truth, which would be equal parts apology, defensiveness, and bluster.

"Hello," he says.

Rose blinks at him, her mouth opening as if she's about to say something but her brain hasn't fully engaged. She makes a tiny squeaking noise of shock.

"You're not supposed to be here. You – you're never supposed to be here. You said it was impossible."

"And you believed me?" He grins. "Rose Tyler, you of all people should know that the word 'impossible' is just a suggestion, as far as I'm concerned."

"You said you could never come back. I've spent the last seventeen years _knowing_ this – there was loads of stuff I wasn't sure about, but the fact that I could never see you again – _that_ I knew." She stops to catch her breath, her arms now wrapped protectively around her stomach. There's a hitch in her voice when she speaks again, and for a moment he thinks she's about to start laughing. "You can't possibly be here."

"I could leave if you want." He gestures toward the lift. "I saw a nice little chippy on the way over, could just pop in for a bite and head back out in the TARDIS to parts unknown."

"You _idiot,_" she says, reaching for him, and pulling him into a hug so tight he expects it to cause bruises. "You _stupid idiot._ You're the only person I know who would cross a universe to see me and then threaten to dump me for a sack of chips."

* * *

Standing on her balcony, looking at the park, he can almost make out the TARDIS, a splash of blue camouflaged by the leafy oaks. It's not so far away. He could escape out the door and be back in his own dimension in a matter of minutes – a coward, but at least one who hasn't had to answer any of the questions she'll have for him. The thrill of unexpectedly finding her again, of having the universe miraculously hand him something he shouldn't have, is fading and quickly being replaced by the fears that ate at him while they were together: she'll cling; she'll abandon her life to live his; she'll expect commitments and declarations he can't offer. He should settle for his hug and run as far away as he can.

Rose tugs open the screen door and joins him on the balcony, handing him a glass of red wine. She clinks glasses with him and sips at the wine while looking up at him with a mix of wonder and joy and mischief that reminds him of why he asked her to join him in the first place. Running still seems like a good idea, but maybe he should consider grabbing her hand so she can follow alongside.

"So how did you end up here, anyway?"

"It's all a bit complicated," he says, scratching the back of his neck and not quite meeting her eyes. "Stabilising cracks in the universe with temporal field adjustment gates, matching the galactic resonant frequency with the waveform modulation coils, crossing a wire here, adding a power converter there ... oh, you don't need to know all the details. The important thing is that I'm here, and that you're here, too, which is just _wonderful._"

He reaches for her hand and laces his fingers with hers. Her touch is warm and soft and human, and not that he hasn't held hands with a human since he lost her, but each human is different, and only one of them is Rose. "It can't really have been seventeen years, can it?" he asks. "You do look a little older than the last time I saw you, and I see you've stopped dyeing your hair ..."

She squeezes his hand affectionately. "My stylist will be pleased to know you think Honey Chestnut #3 is my natural colour."

"Nah, seventeen years, you're having me on." He examines her more closely – laugh lines crinkling at her eyes and more sag to her breasts than there once was, though perhaps it's just that she's not wearing a bra under that grey t-shirt. Not that he's complaining.

"No joke! I'll be director of Torchwood next September, after Pete retires. Still defending the Earth, though mostly with diplomacy and a crateload of paperwork. My brother's off in the States studying chemical engineering at university, Mum's parties are always in the social columns, and she and Pete are happy as can be."

He moves his hand to her hair, brushing it back from her face and cupping her cheek. "I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it. I knew it."

"Yeah," she grins. "I did good, didn't I?" She takes another sip of the wine, rests the glass on a folding table behind her, and slides her arms around his neck. "And I could spend the rest of the day telling you more about my family and my job and how I singlehandedly kept the K'rnnyx from invading London –"

"Ooh, they're nasty brutes. I do want to hear that story." He reaches behind her to drop his glass beside hers, then moves his free hand to her back, bunching up her t-shirt to feel the smooth, bare skin below it.

"And you will." She moves her mouth closer to his. "You will," she says, "but not just yet."

Her kiss is moist and sweet, and he forgets all about running away.

* * *

"It's been a while," he says, removing his trainers and socks, then loosening his tie. "Technically, only a year or so, though I suppose it's more like forty-seven years when you consider it was 1969. Martha and I were trapped there, and it just happened the once, because while she was a lovely girl, really brilliant, we were both a bit pissed that night and I knew later it was a mistake and told her so and she agreed. Well, she agreed at the time but in retrospect some of the things she said to me later might contradict that, now that I think of it. But anyway, forty-seven years, a man gets a little out of practice – "

He's down to just his shirt and his pants when he notices Rose is giving him that fisheye look again, the one she always gave him when he was being rude. Perversely, he is rather impressed with himself for recognising that look after all this time, not to mention impressed with her for still being able to silence him with it.

"What'd I do this time?"

"If you expect this to go any further, you might want to lay off the ex-girlfriend talk for a few minutes, yeah?"

"Ah. Not exactly my best attempt at foreplay, was it?"

"Not exactly, no." But she smiles as she says this, and takes off her t-shirt, so he figures he can't have screwed up _that_ badly – and when she pulls him down for a deep kiss, he knows he's forgiven. Forgiven for the thoughtless remarks he can't help making; for having left her weeping on a Norwegian beach a universe away from him; for returning seventeen years too late, with her life well in progress and not necessarily interruptable. She must have reached that point in her tiny human lifespan where she knows she needs to make the most of what she's got left, and he realises, his tongue sliding over hers, that he's as responsible as time itself for teaching her that lesson.

* * *

"Oh ... don't stop ... yes ... oh, yes ..."

He has Rose at his mercy on the bed, his tongue circling her clit, now a bit of direct pressure just _there,_ now some teasing laps up, down, never quite giving her what she wants, while he enjoys the inestimable pleasure of her hands entangling themselves in his hair, and the moans and near-howls she's starting to make. He rubs at her left breast, alternately pinching her nipple and smoothing it down with his thumb; his other hand is splayed along the top of her right thigh, holding her leg in place. He releases it only when he decides it's finally time to let her come, and slips one, then two fingers inside her, drawing them out with exquisite slowness, in with quick thrusts, until Rose cries out, gasping, her torso shaking and lifting off the bed with the force of her orgasm. He removes his fingers slowly as Rose throbs around them, nearly locking them in place, and drops a short kiss on her pussy. She shakes again at the touch.

He props himself on one elbow and looks up at her, bemused. "One of the things I love most about sex with you, Rose Tyler, is that I never, ever have to worry about whether you're faking an orgasm."

"That something you worried about with the other ones, was it?"

"Very funny. Go on, laugh if you like at the man who just reduced you to incoherent animal noises."

"Moo."

"The level of wit in this bedroom is astounding. I broke through an unbreakable barrier between universes for this?"

"Mmm. No, I believe you broke through for this." Rose reaches down, one hand hauling him up for a kiss, the other rubbing the tip of his cock against the slickness of her pussy, then guiding him toward her entrance. He pushes inside her with a groan, moving slowly at first until she grabs his arse to drive him in more deeply. Between the extra pressure and the way she's alternately licking and sucking at the dual pulse in his neck, he loses what little control he thought he'd have, suddenly thrusting in harder, more urgently, again and again, until he comes, silent save for a short, shuddering breath. He buries his head in the curve of her neck to rest a moment, panting.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I expected to last a bit longer there."

She smooths down his sweaty hair. "Still had fun, though. And we can try again later."

"Later, right." He eases out of her, rolls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. Typical – now that he can actually shag her again, he winds up out of commission in five minutes flat.

"Of course," he muses, "women do recover faster than men." His left hand slinks down her body, tickling her stomach, and he moves it lower to slide a finger between her pussy lips, gently teasing at her still-sensitive clit. "When would later be again?"

"Now," Rose says, leaning over to kiss him.

* * *

They sprawl over each other in her bed, white cotton sheets tangled around his feet. Rose is draped over his chest, and his arm drifts across her back, fingers seeking the curve of her arse. He can just about reach it if he stretches. She leans into his touch, relaxing against him.

"I missed this," she says. "Not just the sex, of course, but lying in bed with you afterwards. Even just holding your hand."

"Me, too." He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of her body. "I am sorry, you know. If I could have been here any sooner, I would have."

"I know." She presses a kiss against his chest. "I stopped waiting for you a long time ago. Had to live my life. Unpacking things was hard at first, but it was the only way."

"Unpacking?"

"It's like when you move into a new flat," she says. "You have all your boxes lying about, full of vases and dishes and photographs, and if you take everything out at once, it's just overwhelming. I had to unpack one memory of you at a time and deal with it and then put it away. If I'd unpacked them all at once, I'd have just ended up on the floor crying my eyes out."

He nods. "So when did you finish ... unpacking?"

"Mmm ... a couple of years on." Rose sighs as he strokes her hair. "I tried to remember every day we spent together, even the boring ones where we just floated in space and I drank tea and watched you mess about with the console."

"Boring? I was never boring! I am always the peak of excitement!" He lets her kisses soothe his mock indignance, though he still grumbles, "Boring, indeed."

She rolls her eyes. "I said some days were boring, not you. You were never boring."

"I _told_ you."

"Anyway," she continues, "boring days and all, it took a while before I felt like I'd put everything away where it should be. And I was better, so much better, after that. Started making new friends, moved out of Mum and Pete's ... ." She hesitates, then looks up at him. "And a few years after that I got married."

He tries not to tense up when he hears this, but suspects she can sense it regardless, probably even expected it. Not that he has any right to be jealous with this much time gone, but old habits die hard, and apparently one of those habits is possessiveness about Rose Tyler. Still, he manages to say "Good for you," and is certain he means it, or at least sounds like he does – reasonably certain, anyway.

As her words finish sinking into him, he feels a sudden, slight panic and reaches for her left hand, trapped between their bodies. "You're not still –"

She laughs and he breathes more easily. "No, we got divorced a while back. Marriage only lasted six years. No kids, we're still friends, and his new wife's a sweetheart. Had dinner with them just last week, in fact."

He is quiet for a moment. In all the time they were together, no matter how often they bounced from planet to planet, never settling down for more than a few days (or however long it took them to break out of jail), he always assumed she really wanted a domestic life. He never expected he'd be disappointed to learn he was right.

"I really am happy for you, you know," he finally says. "I always wanted you to have a fantastic life, even if – well, especially if – it was without me."

"And I did. I am, actually." She snuggles in closer, wrapping a leg over him. "Today has been totally fantastic, now that you mention it. Which makes me wonder about something."

"Yes?"

"I didn't become assistant director of Torchwood by being stupid. I know you lied to me before, about how you got here."

"Rose ...," he starts, but isn't sure how to finish.

"I don't care that you lied. It's not the first time you've lied to me, or at least fudged things a bit, and you wouldn't do it without what you think is a good reason. I just want to know why." She pauses, then adds, "The truth would be nice, too."

He shifts on the bed, turning to face her. She always was perceptive, and if there's one thing he's never lied to her about, it's that he is an inveterate liar.

"What I said about temporal field adjustment gates and matching the galactic resonant frequency – all that was true. After you were pulled into this universe, I tried everything I could think of to bring you back, but none of it worked. Eventually I found that one last crack, and I tried to prop it open long enough to get through, but without my people ... well, it really was impossible, even for me. The message was the best I could do."

He reaches for her face and strokes it gently with curled fingers. "Rose, I gave up looking for you. I only got here by accident. I truly have no idea how the TARDIS did it."

The corners of her mouth start to turn up, almost as if she's about to smile. Smiling? After what he's just admitted? That can't be right.

"Did you really think I'd spent the last seventeen years pining for you?" She's definitely smiling now, and he's definitely confused.

"Um ... yes? No? I mean, I hoped you hadn't, but I rather expected –"

She starts giggling. "You arrogant git. Do you think every woman who falls in love with you spends the rest of her life waiting for you to rescue her from Saturday nights asleep in front of the telly?"

He blinks at her as the giggles threaten to turn into full-out belly laughs, stunned that after nearly one thousand years, he still hasn't the faintest clue what motivates human women, not that the Gallifreyan kind hadn't run rings around him as well.

"Doctor, I'm happy here. I never expected to be, but I've lived a good, fulfilling life. I love my family and my friends and my job, and I've no intention of leaving them even if you asked me to."

"Now who's arrogant? What makes you think I was going to ask you to come with me again?"

"Oh, you just stopped off for a quick shag, then?"

"No, of course not," he says, trying not to snap at her, because though he can tell she's not being serious, he needs her to know that he is. "I wanted to see you, Rose, so very badly. I didn't know how much time had passed, or whether you'd be home today, or if you'd even want to talk to me. But I came anyway. I couldn't _not_ come, even if I wasn't sure whether you'd kiss me or slap me when I turned up at the door."

"I didn't ... I ... ." She falters, all trace of humor vanishing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you."

"It's all right. I suppose I deserve it for giving up on you. If the TARDIS can get here on her own, obviously I should have tried harder. Or at least asked her to fetch you."

"No," she says, quite firmly. "No, you don't deserve it. If you'd found me a year or two on, I'd have thrown myself back in your arms –"

He chuckles at her. "Last time I checked, that's exactly where you were."

"Too right," she says, grinning. "But you didn't come back, so I did what you always wanted me to do on my own, or what I should have wanted for myself if I'd had half a brain then. Sometimes I was a miserable, whiny bitch, and I don't know how Mum kept from killing me, but I wanted to succeed so much, because I knew you'd be proud of me. And eventually, I wanted to succeed just because I knew I could, that I could make things around me better, and I have. If you'd come back for me sooner, I'd have had almost nothing tying me here – but now _everything_ ties me here, and I like it that way."

"Rose Tyler, I'm beginning to think I should have dropped you in a parallel universe a lot sooner than I did."

"Nah, then who'd have found your specs for you every time you lost them on top of your head?"

"Fair enough." He pauses, an idea starting to form. "Rose, there's something I need to do before I go. A couple of things, actually."

"What?"

"Second thing first. Or would that be first thing second? Anyway, I have to go back to the TARDIS to get it, which I can do after we finish the first thing."

"Let me guess what the first thing is," she says, and sneaks a hand between them to fondle his cock.

"Ahhh," he says. "Excellent guess."

* * *

Rose leans against one of the building's entrance columns, her arms folded and eyes keeping close watch on the surroundings, waiting for him. She looks so in control of her situation that he now desperately wants to ask her to come with him, just to prove he could still lure her away with his endless charm and his magical blue box.

It would be futile, though, and he knows it. Best to find some other companion for whom both he and the stars still hold some mystery.

"Here," he says, handing her the large cardboard container he's lugged over from the TARDIS. "I thought about wrapping it up with a smart little bow, but if I'd spent any more time fussing with it you'd probably think I'd legged it back to your universe. You don't mind that there's no bow, do you?"

She chuckles. "No, it's a lovely box as it is. You always did get me the best presents."

"Well," he says, "I didn't just get you a box. Though on Ventrakis IV, buying someone a box is considered the most thoughtful gift you can offer. They've built up this complicated language around the giving of boxes, where the size and the shape and the colour all say something entirely different, like 'You're awfully cute today' or 'I hate you but I've bought you a rather expensive box anyway.'"

"Do shut up now. I want to enjoy this very attractive brown box you've given me."

"Right, of course."

Rose hefts the box carefully and turns her head to listen to the clinks, rustles and rattles that emerge as it bounces up and down.

"It's some mementos from your room," he says softly. "I saved them after you ... well, after, and hid them away in the attic. Thought you might want something a little nicer to unpack than a day of me fiddling with wires under the console."

She looks down at the box, slowly lowers it to the ground, and draws in her breath sharply. Then she throws her arms around him, bruising him further, he's sure, but he doesn't care. He can just barely hear her sobbing against his collar, which makes him clutch her more tightly, as if simply holding her now could make up for the years they spent apart.

After a minute, the sobbing stops. "Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you for everything."

He pulls away from the hug just enough to look down at her face. Her eyes are still rimmed with tears, but her lips are curved into a faint and contented smile. "You'd better go now," she says. "If you stay here any longer, I might reconsider going with you, and the last thing I want is to be twenty again. Hard enough doing that once."

He nods and touches her cheek, still wet from her tears. Kissing her feels like unwrapping the last china plate from its packing paper, settling it into place in the cabinet, finally calling moving day over and done with.

When they break away from each other's arms, she picks up the cardboard box, says "Goodbye, Doctor," and heads toward the building entrance. He stands and watches as the doorman lets her in, then as she disappears around the corner to the lift.

He turns and walks toward the TARDIS, and doesn't look back.


End file.
